let me watch the moon (rise up and turn to silver)
by Mia-Zeklos
Summary: The chances of a Targaryen finding safety in Westeros under King Robert's rule are slim to none; Jon has known that his entire life. The only hope seems to come in the form of the Warden of the North - the man who, as it so happens, is also the guardian of the only living member of his family; the one he's been searching for his entire life.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: Written for day seven of the Jonerys Appreciation Week - _Free Choice / Role Reversal / Favorite Moment_. The last prompt will be included in the next chapter (and yes, this is getting a follow-up because I wanted to post it on the proper date (on AO3) without half-assing it _and_ the other half is from Dany's POV). The literal role reversal is tricky to get right, especially given the circumstances under which it could have happened, but it's an AU, so I suppose frivolities are allowed.**

 **Title inspired from PJ Harvey's _The Last Living Rose_.**

 **More explanations/delving into characterisations to follow in the next chapter. Writing for this week has honestly been such a pleasure and also a wild ride, considering how many of the fics were done day-by-day. Hope you enjoy it and feedback is always welcome!**

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Jon had been struggling with yet another barrel of wine by the time Robb had thought to tell him what the occasion was.

"Father wants us to have a feast," he said as he helped push another one towards the hall. "Mother is coming back with the girls tomorrow."

Jon froze where he'd been standing. It had been two weeks. Two weeks in Winterfell and he had yet to meet any of the Stark sisters. This was the first hint he had ever received of it happening at all.

"The girls," he echoed faintly. "Even your other— your father's— the—"

"Dany?" Robb supplied, seemingly to put him out of his misery more than anything else. "Yes, even her. Mother didn't want to take her, but Arya wouldn't go without her and Aunt Lysa had already arranged for their visit." They worked in silence for a moment, then, "You can say bastard, you know." He was clearly amused that a supposed peasant would shy away from the word. "She's heard it a million times before; she doesn't care. _You_ , however," Robb pointed an accusatory finger at him, "you care a whole lot." Even in the darkness of the corridor, Jon was sure his flushed face would give him away. Robb's smile turned teasing. "You ever seen her?"

"No!" He hadn't. He'd heard her name more and more often as he'd approached Winterfell, but not much else. Jon had a vague idea of what the rest of his – _their_ – family looked like and if she was anything like Viserys, then she was bound to be beautiful.

It was sad to even think about, really. His only hope for safety and family, if he was lucky, was a person he had enough information about to fill a sentence. He knew a lot about the life she could have had ( _Daenerys_ , Viserys had always said, _that's the name our mother gave her and she would have been a princess of the Seven Kingdoms_ ) and the one she did have as Ned Stark's bastard, but she – not either of her families, not her brother, just her – was still shrouded in unanswered questions.

"You've heard of her, though," Robb pressed and this time, Jon couldn't deny it. "Don't worry, it doesn't bother me. She's Father's eldest daughter _and_ she's beautiful. Pity she's a Snow or he would have found her some Lord to marry already."

Panic gripped at Jon's chest. He was so close. He hadn't come all this way just for this to happen _now_. "Lord Stark wants to find her a husband?"

"Not before Sansa." Robb had sobered up now that he'd been asked a question about something that he'd had lessons about. The Stark children had that ability, Jon had notice during his short stay at their home – they could be terribly serious and more light-hearted than the majority of the Northerners he'd met so far all at once. "It would be unheard of and Sansa is still too young. She doesn't think so, of course, she things she wants the prince, but that's—"

"Robb?"

Jon quickly returned to his task, not too eager to be caught lazing around, but it turned out to be just Theon. "Lord Stark wants a word."

"Right away." Robb patted him on the shoulder absent-mindedly as he went past him; a habit he seemed to have developed recently. Jon had never protested, even if he wasn't quite sure what had earned him that ease. "Hurry up, you; Father wants this done by noon tomorrow."

 **o.O.o**

 _Lord Stark_. He was the ruler of Winterfell and had a handful of other titles that Jon couldn't recall and, despite the frequent mentions of his orders, he seemed to be exceptionally busy. Jon had yet to catch anything more than a glimpse of him, but along with Daenerys, he was everything he could think about. He was his mother's brother and he had been the one to name him, too; he'd meant to take him away and up North where he could be safe, it appeared.

How he had ended up with a little girl instead – one that he had no relation to whatsoever, especially – was as much of a mystery to Jon as everything else surrounding his birth. Viserys had told him his version of the story three times over the years and it had been different each and every one of them. It was understandable; he had been nothing but a terrified child back then and Jon had never pressed because it had never _mattered_. Viserys had been cruel and foolish and he had still saved his life and raised him well enough for Jon to manage himself now that he was gone.

And Ned Stark... he had done more than that. Viserys had had the interest of saving his only living family that he knew of, preserving his brother's blood even if it was unclean. Ned Stark had taken a Targaryen into his home while his king had been trying to wipe them all off of the face of the world and he had _kept_ her; had taken the shame that his story would bring. He had raised her as his own. If there was ever a safe place in Westeros for a Targaryen to be, this had to be it.

He would only have to make sure they both believed him. The thought was enough to rouse him from the almost-sleep he had fallen into and he got up from his bed to tiptoe to the fireplace and the bag that he kept right next to it.

The servants's rooms were small, barely enough for them to bring anything at all and while it made sense – servants didn't have much to begin with – it only made it all the more difficult to hide the only thing he would never want stolen.

He had been on his own for quite a while now and the eggs still made his heart twist with something between grief and gratitude. Viserys had been the one to get them – he was the one people had always believed about his heritage and back when Jon had still been a child, fate had finally been on their side for a little while. They'd met a family of Targaryen loyalists with enough money to offer them a shelter for almost a year while also giving them far too many gifts for them to be able to carry when they left. That hadn't included the dragon eggs, of course; they had both clung to them like an anchor in a thunderstorm.

 _One for each of us_ , Viserys had told him every time when they had spent one night too many with a roof over their heads in the woods of Westeros. Jon had listened and traced their stone-like scales; thought of how Viserys had already taken a liking to the green one. He himself would take the black, clearly – it only made sense – and Daenerys could have the white if they were to ever find her. _Three dragons, three Targaryens. And once we get to my sister, we'll get back what belongs to us._

It was a powerful fantasy, Jon had found, to think about getting things _back_ when you had nothing at all. It had been easier for him – he had never had anything – but Viserys had never been able to bear it too well. He had gambled with the only thing they could keep forever and he had _lost_.

It had made his death just a little easier to bear, in a way. Jon had despised him and loved him at the same time, but when he had tried to exchange their eggs for the sake of protection when they had come face to face with one of the hill tribes, it had been the biggest betrayal Jon had ever experienced. He hadn't been given long to process it – the tribe they'd found had thought Viserys to be either a madman or a liar and he had paid for it with his life just before they'd sent Jon on his way (' _Don't be a fool like your brother, boy, and get out of here before someone else finds you and your rocks'_ ).

But Viserys hadn't been his brother, he'd barely even been his family, it seemed and in the end, Jon had accepted that he was alone. Nothing should have changed just because he had decided to keep travelling North, but it _had_ and somehow, it felt like the stakes were much higher now that he'd arrived.

 _Three dragons, three Targaryens_. But it didn't make sense, not anymore, and maybe it had been the wrong idea to begin with. He had never considered that Daenerys might be meant to have them all, but recently, it had been all Jon could think about. He would offer them once she got back, he had already decided. It would be worth it if it made her believe him and that way, she would perhaps let him have the black one all the same.

 **o.O.o**

It wasn't quite the meeting that Jon had imagined, much to his misfortune. If anything, he had taken one look at Daenerys Targaryen's face – it was undoubtedly her, even with the thick furs she'd wrapped around herself just like her sisters and the hood carelessly thrown over her silver hair – and felt as if he had been brought back to his childhood in an instant.

She had her brother's wide, watery green eyes and the same pale, almost translucent skin; the same sharp features, somewhat softened on her smaller face. Unlike Viserys, who had always stood tall, she seemed far more inclined to keep her head down, only looking up for a quick smile in his general direction as he helped her down the steps of the carriage.

 _This was it_. Everything he had hoped for, everything he had done had led up to this and, with a twinge of horror, Jon realised that he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

There was no need for introductions even if he had had the privilege of keeping a conversation. It was easy to guess who Lady Stark was and her two daughters fit Robb's descriptions of them quite well. They'd already scattered in several directions in the time he'd spent debating whether it would be wise to keep himself busy in the yard for just long enough to know whether he could intrude on the feast without being noticed. It would be his first chance to meet Lord Stark, and even if he couldn't have that, then just Daenerys would do. Bastards were easy to find during feasts, he'd noticed, and she'd be close enough for him to try and talk to her.

As it turned out, he didn't need to do anything of the sort. It wasn't long before they'd reunited with their family and had returned to what Jon presumed was what they usually did in their free time. _This_ he knew well – he had seen highborn ladies before, mainly by sneaking into castles to spend the night in exchange for work like he had done with Winterfell. It only got him by surprise when the youngest one – Arya – took hold of one of the bows and took her place in front of one of the targets.

"You should try it," she was saying, closing one eye as if it would help her concentrate. Daenerys, who had rid herself of her cloak at some point, only offered a laugh in response from the fence she was sitting precariously on.

"How is this a skill we'd ever need?"

"And you speaking funny tongues is necessary, is it?" Arya fired back and motioned her over again. "It doesn't have to be the bow; I can show you."

"'Funny tongues'?" Daenerys didn't seem ready to let that go. "You're always present during my lessons."

"Doesn't make it useful." Arya sighed at the lack of response and pointed towards the practicing spear someone had left on the wall nearby. "Kostagon imon iā— egros?"

Jon, who had been trying to rearrange the rack of weapons for quite a while now, felt his grip on yet another sword falter. _Valyrian_. The words were faltering and unsure, but there was no mistaking it.

"Egrio," Daenerys corrected carefully. "Kostagon eman iā egrio."

It was fascinating, Jon thought, to hear a Northern accent on a Valyrian voice, stumbling over words that should have been hers by right. It brought another surge of the same old sadness that the thought of her seemed to wake even now that he had actually _seen_ her. She was everything he had imagined and more and it was upsetting, in a way, to realise that he had never really known how he was going to proceed with this. This was what Viserys had always wanted, what he had promised him would fix everything: get to the Starks, find Daenerys, find enough allies to march on King's Landing. It had all been so simple back when Jon had first heard it and so much had changed since then that all he could do was sit and watch helplessly.

"It sounds the exact same way, Dany," Arya said, voice indignant enough to pull him out of his reverie and Jon stifled an amused snort as best as he could. Not well enough, apparently, as she called out after him a moment later. "You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yes, my lady." Jon turned around and found himself faced with Arya's grin and Daenerys's long-suffering and yet indulgent grimace.

"What's your name?"

"Jon, my lady."

"Well, help my sister pick a weapon, Jon. I'm going to go get us something to eat."

He could feel her approaching even without looking and sure enough, Daenerys was by his side a moment later, picking at the edge of one of the longswords experimentally with the tip of her finger. "I want something impressive," she said, hesitantly wrapping her hand around the handle to try and pick it up, "she needs some entertainment before the feast."

"This is as impressive as it gets." Jon's laugh sounded rather tortured even to his own ears. "Dany, is it?"

"That would be me." She sounded wary now, those pale eyes turning to him and narrowing slightly. _You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?_ There wasn't the same cruelty to it, not even close, but it was still nearly enough to make him take a step back. The resemblance would take some getting used to – about as long as it would take him to get to know her, Jon supposed.

"There's a— a gift that someone gave me," Jon soldiered on. It was only half a lie and it was worth it for the way her expression lit up all of a sudden. "Something that I have to pass on to you."

"To _me_?" She was smiling now, more disbelief than hilarity, and Jon found himself responding.

"Is it truly so hard to believe?"

"That would depend on what the gift is, I expect." Daenerys finally pulled the sword free from its confines and headed back for the practice area. "Is it something you can bring to the feast tonight?"

"It requires a little more space than that." It would have been a fine enough opportunity for nearly anything but _this_. "And an explanation, I reckon."

"You're serious about this, then." She hadn't taken it to heart before, but she was considering it now; he could see the calculation in her eyes. "If this is a joke—"

"I swear it's not." Jon was painfully aware of how odd he sounded, but couldn't bring himself to give up now.

Another moment of contemplation. "Meet me here tonight once they bring out the dessert," she said at last, turning back to the entrance when she saw her sister approaching again. "Don't make me regret this."

It wasn't what he had imagined at all and for the first time for as long as Jon could remember, the thought filled him with hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: So yeah, this is most likely turning into a straight-up multichapter fic. At least two to go, possibly more than that, considering that I'm just now starting on an outline. The chunks of writing are just getting too long to fit in a single follow-up without being massively disproportionate to the first chapter.**

 **Regarding Daenerys and her relationship with the Starks, as this clearly isn't a perfect role reversal and some dynamics are shifted in this chapter and the following ones when compared to what Jon's situation was: I always thought that he would have probably had an even harder time during his years in Winterfell if he had been a girl where Catelyn was concerned and that things might have been a little bit better with Sansa in that case. The fic reflects those ideas because they just made the most sense when constructing this canon divergence.**

 **Feedback is still very much welcome, so feel free to let me know what you think!**

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Coming home had never been such a bittersweet relief before. Dany had rarely left it for long to begin with, but considering the visit they had just endured, she suspected that she wouldn't express the desire to travel soon again – not in the direction of the Eyrie, at least.

The only benefit she could easily see was the time she had spent in the sun and the dresses she had got from a merchant she had met there. They weren't something she could wear this far North – or in front of Lady Stark, regardless of where they were – but there had been something about them that had made it all worth it. The soft material was more delicate than anything she had ever owned before, the kind of gowns that would fit a princess, and even Lysa Arryn informing her that she "wouldn't be allowed to sit in the hall for dinner anymore if she kept dressing like an Essosi whore" hadn't marred her enjoyment – especially not when she had tried to stuff them deep into her luggage for the way back so that they wouldn't attract anyone's attention and Sansa had spoken to her from her own cot in the carriage.

"You mustn't listen to her," she had said, trailing her fingers over the smooth, sky-blue surface of Dany's favourite. Them sharing this space was likely another benefit, although an unforeseen one: Arya had been the one to insist on her going with them, but Arya was too impressionable to be left alone with her, apparently, and the two sisters fought too much to sleep in the same carriage. In a way, she was glad – it had given them all some peace and the time she and Sansa had likely needed for the lifelong uncomfortable silence between them to slowly melt away. "I got one for myself when Mother wasn't looking. I wish I had taken money for more. They're beautiful."

Cautious but pleasantly surprised, Dany had shrugged. "She is Lady Stark's sister," she'd pointed out. "It only makes sense—"

"No, it's not that," Sansa had waved her off. "She hates us all, but she wouldn't get away with calling me or Arya names. I don't know why Mother wanted us to go. What's the use of a proper summer if someone makes you miserable the entire time?"

"Yes," Dany had agreed, feeling just a little too comfortable in the sudden warmth between them. "At home, we can at least be miserable on our own because we're cold."

"I know," Sansa had groaned. "But I actually heard Mother and Father talk before we left and I think that maybe the King will come to visit, _finally_ , and when he does—"

Dany had been curious and all too eager to hear the story of Winterfell receiving visitors, but Sansa's voice had faded away in an instant as soon as she had mentioned the King. She let go of her dress, choosing to lean back on her cot instead, seeking out all the support she could get from the solid surface.

The royal family hadn't visited the North in years; Dany had either forgotten about it happening in her lifetime or had missed it entirely by having been too young to remember, but she had heard enough about them to be well informed. They had been right in the eye of the storm where the Rebellion was concerned. The majority of the residents of Winterfell had little knowledge of what exactly had occurred, but the King and the Queen – the King especially – she had been warned about years ago.

 _Let people say what they will_ , her father had told her when she had finally asked about all the looks people gave her when they thought she wasn't paying attention. She had been all of eight and more frustrated than necessary with all the half-hidden whispering – even a bastard could be afforded a moment of peace, she had always assumed. It wasn't her presence that bothered them, _that_ they had got used to years ago, but something else that she hadn't been able to determine. Now, years later, it was easy to see that it had been about her appearance and all the little tells that she had never considered an anomaly back then. _Let them stare, but don't let them trick you into responding. There's nothing for you to gain from this, understand?_

He had been gentle about it, but the realisation had hurt all the same. He was _hiding_ her here, away from a threat no one ever spoke about. The understanding had only come when her history lessons had begun and Maester Luwin's stories of the Targaryen dynasty had become the centrepiece of them. It was then that she had been forced to take it all into consideration once again.

 _Dany_. No one she knew was named anything even remotely close to that and what kind of Lord would give his daughter – even a bastard one – a foreign name?

 _Dany_. _Daenerys_. She had been certain, then, that the inspiration for her name had stemmed from there. Father hadn't denied it when she had asked, but had refused to answer the rest of her questions. All she had received had been a few more firm reminders of how it didn't matter what anyone else thought her to be, as if she could just forget that for an unknown (not as unknown, not anymore) reason, she had been named after a Targaryen princess from centuries ago.

It had all been very mysterious and exciting back then, when she had spent her nights turning in bed and imagining all the possibilities of who her mother could be. At times, she had made up interesting enough stories for it to be romantic and perhaps just a little tragic. Now, with the King's visit looming on the horizon, it felt much more like a burden.

Sansa had asked her if there was something wrong a couple of times after that, but Dany had withdrawn back into herself for the rest of the trip. The fragile understanding between them was there to last, it seemed, but they had still parted ways as soon as they'd arrived home, eager to get into the routines they had both sorely missed.

 _Home_. The thought had been a comforting one all through their visit, as if enduring it all was somehow easier whenever Dany recalled Winterfell. Now that had been taken away too – by someone much more influential than Lady Arryn could ever dream to be, at that.

It wasn't that her welcome had been a cold one, she thought now as she excused herself from the servants's table and made her way outside as quickly as she could without being noticed (not an easy feat when she felt her father's eyes following her every step, but she only had herself to blame for that; she _had_ told him that she wanted to talk earlier). It was just that she might have done something extremely stupid shortly after her arrival.

Most people approached her with a puzzling kind of detached tentativeness, but this boy – _Jon_ – was just new enough to not know better. If she had indeed been the target of a jest or if this had been an indecent proposal that she hadn't understood— it wasn't impossible, Dany supposed, even if his behaviour earlier had suggested otherwise. People as attractive as him tended to think that the world belonged to them, that much she had seen from her stay in the Eyrie, and if he had wanted something from her, he would likely be arrogant enough to ask directly. Outsiders were always the ones who thought a bastard would be easier to sway than a Lord's trueborn daughter and she wasn't a noble, but Father would be _so_ disappointed—

But no, Jon was there, back pressed against the wall as he tried to sink into the shadows outside the hall as best as he could. He was holding a small but evidently heavy bag and his earlier words echoed in her mind. _A gift_. She had always been fond of receiving gifts, if not by strange boys who called her out of a feast way past nightfall, but Dany had been inclined to let all the oddities go for now. She had been curious and was even more so now when she approached him, wrapping her arms around her upper body as if it would shield her from the cold – or, come to think of it, from his eyes.

The gesture didn't do much of either, but by now, she had grown somewhat used to it. Southern dresses were much more revealing than what she was used to and her only comfort came from the fact that the newcomer looked about as uncomfortable in his own furs. He had spent his life away from here, then. She had been able to tell from his voice, but there was still something familiar about the way he looked at her, as if he had known her once, many years ago, and was just waiting for the chance to meet her again. It would have been flattering if it hadn't been so unexpected.

Still, "You've brought the gift?" she asked, shortening the distance between them a little more. He nodded. "You said someone gave it to you and wanted me to have it. Who was it?"

"Someone important." Much to her delight, Jon held her gaze without hesitation. It had to be a good sign that he wasn't intimidated and he had either been made aware of that or genuinely wanted to prove himself to her. "But someone you can't meet."

"That doesn't make any sense." Unlike gifts, mysteries didn't appeal to her quite as much anymore as they had when she had been a child. The anxiety that had plagued her ever since the day Sansa had mentioned the royal visit only tightened its hold further now, threatening to take her breath away. "No matter. Show me," she demanded, voice a fraction louder when he opened his mouth to explain himself. It sounded more imperious than she had intended it to be, but it had the desired effect – Jon's grip around the bag's handle tightened nervously, accompanied by another nod.

"I will. Do you— is there somewhere we can go where no one will see?"

He was too jittery for this to be a proposition of any kind, Dany decided. His behaviour was hectic but straightforward and he seemed to actually want her to trust him, as illogical as it was. Her opinion of anyone at all had never held much of a weight and a stranger caring this much was bound to cause trouble, but she had been known to be more inquisitive than wary before. It was an endless source of exasperation of nearly everyone in her life and perhaps just this once, she could _gain_ something from it.

"Follow me."

They had chosen the right moment for this, it appeared. With everyone still at the feast, no one would notice Dany trying to get back to her own room with a visitor – not only a rare occurrence, but a never seen before sight. She didn't fear being berated, or so she had always told herself, but she could still feel her heart beating in her throat as she pulled out the key to her chambers and, after a couple of unsuccessful tries, managed to unlock the door.

The familiar sight inside was enough to clear her head some. She had lingered here for a few hours before the feast, but it was different at night, with the sudden warmth of the already burning fire and the darkness shrouding her from the outside world. The last faint light from the torches in the corridor faded after she pulled Jon inside by his wrist and closed the door behind his back, extending a hand impatiently until he carefully handed her his bag.

She had expected it to be heavy, but it weighed more still; enough for her to almost drop it and for Jon to frantically reach out before she'd had the chance. _Something fragile then; something breakable_. Something from her mother, perhaps? Her father spoke of her rarely and with a distant sort of grief, so Dany had always assumed that he had lost her a long time ago. She had never really dared to hope... except she _had_ , sometimes, in her loneliest moments. It had been a childish fancy, but she had entertained it more than once; the possibility of her mother still alive somewhere in the world, hidden away just as Dany herself had been. Her identity had always been vague in those fantasies, but she had seen herself in the mirror and had always had her theories—

They were stones.

Dany's grip on the first one grew uncertain as she brought it to the light. It was a rock, bright green and egg-shaped, scaly like a snake's skin on one side and rough at the bottom _. It must have been waiting for a while_. The thought was unwelcome and unexplained and _right_ and Daenerys carefully lowered herself to the ground, holding on to the rock as she placed it by the fireplace and reached for the others. Their colours were duller, less pronounced, but they looked just as beaten up by time and only the Gods knew what else. They were still heavy, impossibly so, almost, and she couldn't remember the last time she had been this tender with something.

Jon cleared his throat. She had forgotten about his presence, she realised, and the sound now came as if was coming from above the surface of a lake she was swimming in – distant and foreign, unlike her and his gift.

"They are—"

"I know what they are." Even her own voice was different now. "I've seen them before."

"You have?" He sounded oddly dejected, but there was an undercurrent of excited trepidation to it, as if he was waiting for something to fall into place. "When?"

"In a dream." She was the one not making much sense now, she knew, but it didn't seem to matter. Daenerys took the eggs one by one again, reaching into the fire this time, relishing in the way the flames embraced her hands. "Or a dream of a dream. It's so strange; I've only just remembered."

"Don't!" Jon hissed, dropping to his knees next to her as if he could prevent anything at all. "You could get hurt, they could—"

"Fire can't hurt me." It had never had that power, but it had never occurred to her what the reason for that might be. Perhaps Jon was right and so had been whoever had sent him to her – perhaps she had always been meant to have this. "It definitely can't hurt _them_."

Jon had yet to take his eyes off of the sight in front of him. With his features illuminated by the fire, it was easy to see that he was drawn to it too, even if there was an edge of terror to it. "How would you know?"

"Why did you trust me with them?"

"Because you had to have them." The question had pulled him out of his reverie and had brought on some of the earlier indignation at the training grounds. "I already told you."

"You could have sold them and gained a fortune, but you went all this way to become a servant at Winterfell and give them to a stranger. Why?" For a moment, there was silence. Daenerys allowed herself the tiniest hint of a smile. "Because you thought I'd know what to do. Someone told you I would and you trusted them."

"I did," he conceded. "Might not've been the wisest choice, but—"

"But you trusted them," she finished for him, settling down more comfortably as she tried to make space for the last egg in the fireplace. She would pay for this, there was no way around it, but something inside her had awakened and it refused to desert her again. "Do you trust _me_?"

"I do. And you're right, you _are_ a stranger, but I do."

 _Not the wisest choice either_. Predicting the future had never been amongst Daenerys's gifts, but she didn't need it to see things for what they were.

"Tell me more."

This time, he didn't hesitate.


End file.
